Remembrance Day by Leah Fleming Read Free Book Online

small crowd huffing and puffing,stamping their clogs; the faithful brigade of chapel stalwarts wrapped against the cold with caps, shawls and bonnets on their heads. Men in hobnail boots and hats holding baskets of hymn sheets, children, muffled with hoods, skating on icy flags.
    The last to arrive was Mr Best from the mill, in his carriage with his son and daughter and a line of servants walking behind, looking pinched underneath their best cloaks. Harold Fothergill flourished his trumpet and the sober remnants of the village silver band gathered in a huddle. The drummer strapped on his instrument ready to lead the proceedings. They were ready for the off but not before a prayer.
    ‘All present and correct,’ shouted the pastor, raising his hat. Only the old and infirm were exempt from this morning’s witness.
    ‘Hurry up, I’m freezing!’ yelled Frank, laughing. ‘What’s the first hymn?’
    ‘As it always is,’ Newt replied. ‘“Christians, awake” followed by “Hail, smiling morn”.’
    ‘That’ll wake the dead then,’ quipped Selma.
    ‘If we’re awake and doing, I don’t see why those still in their beds should slumber on,’ said the choirmaster. ‘I want full throttle.’
    There was a drum roll, a tuning up of the large euphonium and the procession stood to attention as the bass drum banged out the start of their parade. Everyone tried to stay in tune and on time but they kept parting company and stopping so stragglers could catch up as they stormed round the village green, past the church and through the side streets before back to the square.
    ‘Christians, awake, salute the happy morn…’ rang outin the frosty air loud enough to wake the dead in the churchyard; ‘O come, all ye faithful’ and ‘Once in royal David’s city’. A few curtains twitched and then a head appeared from behind the shutters of the Hart’s Head. An irate Charlie Plimmer was yelling his protest as he chucked the contents of his chamber pot out the window in their direction.
    ‘Shut that bloody racket! Can’t a man get a decent night’s sleep without you caterwauling?’
    ‘And a Merry Christmas to you and yours, Mr Plimmer…’ The minister raised his hat and everyone cheered.
    Essie smiled as they carried on singing until they were hoarse, standing under the elm tree that shaded both teetotallers and hard drinkers alike of a sunny evening. ‘Who needs John Barleycorn to lift spirits on such a day?’ whispered Asa, slipping his arm into hers. Essie smiled and patted his hand, her dark eyes flashing mischief.
    ‘That was a good sing-along. We got in first before the church bells,’said the minister.‘Time for a slice of Christmas pie in the chapel room.’
    Essie stood admiring the grey stone building, proud to see her family name, Ackroyd, carved into one of the foundation stones. We’re built to last, she thought, looking at her bonny children growing into fine specimens. One day they would be leading the faithful in this age-old tradition.
    The pastor handed small books to the children, full of terrible tales of poor little Eva who waited in the snow for her father to come out of the public house, dying with fever and bringing him to sign the pledge of her dying wish, alongside decorated biscuits. They sipped cups of tea with relish; glad of the warmth on their fingers.
    Essie smiled, thinking she had brewed up her Christmas cordial from hedge berries; blackberries and elderberries,rosehips all steeped in sugar for weeks on end; all the goodness of God’s earth in a stone jar. Asa, Ruth and her husband, Sam, would wolf it down and complain of a puzzling funny headache in the morning. Essie was sure it must be the extra sweetness of the juice, but what if the fermentation was too strong? Perhaps it was better not to know. She was sure the Lord, who turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana, would not begrudge a little laxity on His birthday.
    ‘You don’t really believe there’ll be war, do you,